Requiem
It's been exactly one week since he died.
The big aching hole in my chest gets glossed over by the endless stream of convention work, and other human distractions, but gets carved wide open again at the slightest little reminder.
For 15 years, he was my best friend, my faithful companion. He moved with me into 17 different households, tolerating my gypsy lifestyle better than any other cat would. He was my anchor, my stability, a warm, purring ball of unconditional love in my lap, on my bed, curled up on my chest, or under the covers when it was cold. And he was the perfect gentleman. Before the age of five, his meow was barely even audible, and even after that, he always spoke quietly. If he wanted my attention, his two favorite ways of getting it were to tap at me with one paw, or, if that didn't work, to butt his head gently against me.
My handsome gentleman cat Beorn... He had always seemed immortal to me. As I watched him growing older and slowing down, I'd tell myself that sooner or later he would die, and I'd have to face that pain eventually, but not yet, not for a few more years at least. Up until about ten minutes before he died of liver failure, I still believed that I could save him, dropper-feeding him baby formula when I should have just been holding him quietly and loving him. It wasn't until I finally admitted that I didn't want to take him to the vet to die in fear and pain (where they couldn't save him anyway - all they could do for a cat his age was euthanize him), only when I told him that I wanted him to be happy and out of pain, only then did he finally let himself slip away from me, cradled in my arms in a tiny soft and fragile ball, where there had once been such a strong and vibrant kitty.
His fur was amazing. Even reduced to skin and bones, he remained resplendent in the softest, thickest fur I have ever seen or felt on a cat. Covering that fur in his green shroud, burying his softness in the cold winter ground, and walking away is one of the hardest things I have ever done. I know that he is no longer in that body, but being the kinaesthetic person I am, not being able to continue to touch him, to feel that amazing presence through his black and tawny softness, or those amazing long whiskers, it's just unnerving to me.
I didn't feel like this when my father died, nor for any other of my many relatives and friends who have died. Perhaps when I chose to have a cat instead of a child, I should have considered the short life-span of cats, but from the moment I saw him, less than two weeks old, I knew that he was special, and he has remained special for all of the years since, more than any other being except perhaps my paternal grandmother. That first day, I picked him up and played with him for so long that I had a severe allergic reaction - my face puffed up for three days straight. A small price to pay for such a kitten. Though my allergies were never so severe afterward, I'd still have trouble breathing if I spent too long with my face buried in his fur. I didn't care.
I could spend hours petting him, talking to him, watching him stare up at me with those gorgeous green eyes. But all too often, work would take me away from him, or he'd jump into the middle of some project of mine one too many times, and I'd shoo him away. I know that one can't spend all of one's time with a cat in one's lap, but now I wish that I'd let him stay there just a little longer, or devoted a little less time to the people and projects demanding my attention, and spent a little more time with this amazing being who could only be in my life for this finite bit of time.
I delayed writing about him until this morning, because thinking about him only made me cry more, and I hoped that with a little time maybe I could actually write about him without ending up bleary-eyed and sniffling and exhausted at the end of it. Fat chance.
This past week though, I've been catching little glimpses of him out of the corner of my eye. So has Crow. So did a friend who stopped by tonight. At first I was worried that all of my crying might be making him stick around when he should be moving on to the Summerland, to play with his sister. But then I remember all of those times over the years when he'd show up in my dreams, and I'd be all worried about him making it through those nightmares unscathed, and he would always be fine in the end. I think perhaps that all of these years, my cat has been far wiser than I, and certainly far better equipped to find his way around the Spirit Realm. So, even though my eyes sting with tears, I welcome the brush of phantom fur against my ankles. I'll continue to leave a little milk on the altar for him, and trust that like my grandmother, he can visit now and again from his well-deserved rest in the Summerland.
The big aching hole in my chest gets glossed over by the endless stream of convention work, and other human distractions, but gets carved wide open again at the slightest little reminder.
For 15 years, he was my best friend, my faithful companion. He moved with me into 17 different households, tolerating my gypsy lifestyle better than any other cat would. He was my anchor, my stability, a warm, purring ball of unconditional love in my lap, on my bed, curled up on my chest, or under the covers when it was cold. And he was the perfect gentleman. Before the age of five, his meow was barely even audible, and even after that, he always spoke quietly. If he wanted my attention, his two favorite ways of getting it were to tap at me with one paw, or, if that didn't work, to butt his head gently against me.
My handsome gentleman cat Beorn... He had always seemed immortal to me. As I watched him growing older and slowing down, I'd tell myself that sooner or later he would die, and I'd have to face that pain eventually, but not yet, not for a few more years at least. Up until about ten minutes before he died of liver failure, I still believed that I could save him, dropper-feeding him baby formula when I should have just been holding him quietly and loving him. It wasn't until I finally admitted that I didn't want to take him to the vet to die in fear and pain (where they couldn't save him anyway - all they could do for a cat his age was euthanize him), only when I told him that I wanted him to be happy and out of pain, only then did he finally let himself slip away from me, cradled in my arms in a tiny soft and fragile ball, where there had once been such a strong and vibrant kitty.
His fur was amazing. Even reduced to skin and bones, he remained resplendent in the softest, thickest fur I have ever seen or felt on a cat. Covering that fur in his green shroud, burying his softness in the cold winter ground, and walking away is one of the hardest things I have ever done. I know that he is no longer in that body, but being the kinaesthetic person I am, not being able to continue to touch him, to feel that amazing presence through his black and tawny softness, or those amazing long whiskers, it's just unnerving to me.
I didn't feel like this when my father died, nor for any other of my many relatives and friends who have died. Perhaps when I chose to have a cat instead of a child, I should have considered the short life-span of cats, but from the moment I saw him, less than two weeks old, I knew that he was special, and he has remained special for all of the years since, more than any other being except perhaps my paternal grandmother. That first day, I picked him up and played with him for so long that I had a severe allergic reaction - my face puffed up for three days straight. A small price to pay for such a kitten. Though my allergies were never so severe afterward, I'd still have trouble breathing if I spent too long with my face buried in his fur. I didn't care.
I could spend hours petting him, talking to him, watching him stare up at me with those gorgeous green eyes. But all too often, work would take me away from him, or he'd jump into the middle of some project of mine one too many times, and I'd shoo him away. I know that one can't spend all of one's time with a cat in one's lap, but now I wish that I'd let him stay there just a little longer, or devoted a little less time to the people and projects demanding my attention, and spent a little more time with this amazing being who could only be in my life for this finite bit of time.
I delayed writing about him until this morning, because thinking about him only made me cry more, and I hoped that with a little time maybe I could actually write about him without ending up bleary-eyed and sniffling and exhausted at the end of it. Fat chance.
This past week though, I've been catching little glimpses of him out of the corner of my eye. So has Crow. So did a friend who stopped by tonight. At first I was worried that all of my crying might be making him stick around when he should be moving on to the Summerland, to play with his sister. But then I remember all of those times over the years when he'd show up in my dreams, and I'd be all worried about him making it through those nightmares unscathed, and he would always be fine in the end. I think perhaps that all of these years, my cat has been far wiser than I, and certainly far better equipped to find his way around the Spirit Realm. So, even though my eyes sting with tears, I welcome the brush of phantom fur against my ankles. I'll continue to leave a little milk on the altar for him, and trust that like my grandmother, he can visit now and again from his well-deserved rest in the Summerland.